


Who Says Funerals Aren't Any Funn?

by ZombieBabs



Series: Search for Coralee (Crossover 'Verse) [1]
Category: The Black Tapes Podcast, Wooden Overcoats
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 20:44:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6823405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZombieBabs/pseuds/ZombieBabs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After receiving another clue from Coralee, Alex and Strand find themselves in Piffling Veil. The strange family running Funn Funerals are no help at all.</p><p>“There was a mouse in that man’s pocket,” Strand says, looking dazed.</p><p>*Edited 7.27.17</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Says Funerals Aren't Any Funn?

_Rudyard Funn runs a funeral home on the island of Piffling. It used to be the only one. It isn’t anymore._

“Did you hear something?” Alex asks.

Strand turns to her. The frown etched on his face is nearly a scowl.

He's been a storm of emotions since they received the coded message days prior. The message he's convinced came from Coralee.

“I beg your pardon?”

Alex shakes her head. She’s clearly just hearing things.

Strand looks around the square. The village is quaint from what Alex has seen of it. And by the size of the island, Alex has probably seen most of it.

“Why would a village of this size need two funeral parlors?”

Alex follows his gaze to see two buildings, each on opposite sides of the village square.

The first looks like something straight out of a horror movie. The sky is otherwise sunny, bright and beautiful, except for the rain cloud hanging dark and ominous overhead. The fence is all Gothic iron-wrought metal, barely able to keep the overgrown lawn from spilling out onto the sidewalk. The paint is peeling and the roof is missing quite a few shingles.

The second looks nothing like the first. This building gleams in the sunlight, all bright white paint, modern metallic accents, and large, picturesque windows. The lawn is impeccably landscaped, with not one, but two families picnicking on red and white checkered blankets. Several people exit the building, walking down a side-walk pressure-washed within an inch of its life. Each one holds a paper to-go cup of coffee. Children stuff their mouths with chocolates.

Alex stares hard, but she has no idea what Strand is talking about. “What do you mean? Chapman’s has to be some kind of cafe.” 

Strand shakes his head. He points to the illuminated sign hanging just above the main entrance. Underneath the proud, bold letters spelling out the name of the business is the tagline.

Alex reads it out loud, just to be sure she read it correctly the first time. “‘We put the fun in funerals?' That's terrible.”

“This island, this Piffling. There's something not quite right here." Strand glares, like he can force the answers out of the town by sheer force of will. "Why would Coralee send us here?”

“Are you sure this is even the right place? We’re a long way from home.”

“No,” he says, “but it’s worth investigating.”

They have yet to prove Coralee is _alive_ , let alone sending coded messages to Alex's inbox. It's possible _none_ of this is worth investigating. It's possible the caller is just a troll. A kid with too much time on their hands, able to dig up obscure references from Strand's life to feed to him like a starving puppy, leading him, and Alex, on a hunt leading nowhere.

But Strand has resisted each and every one of Alex's arguments. Since learning of the messages, Strand has dug in his heels and refused to believe anything else. But the more certain Strand is the sender of the messages is Coralee, the more Alex is skeptical of it. 

She isn’t enjoying the reversal of their roles quite as much as she thought she would.

“We might as well ask around,” Alex says.

Asking around proves more difficult than Alex expects. The villagers are all friendly--very friendly, in fact--but not one will stop for an interview. They take one look at the pair, specifically the tall, scowling form of Strand, and scurry away with polite apologies. Alex isn’t sure the square is even big enough for a person to scurry, but that’s exactly what they do.

Alex shrugs. “They must be wary of strangers.”

Strand doesn’t say anything, simply pushes forward. Alex follows, struggling to keep up with his long-legged stride. He leads her to the dark and spooky building because of course he does.

A sign hangs in the window of Funn Funerals, proclaiming the business to be closed. Strand knocks anyway.

A young woman opens the door. She stands there, blinking up at Strand, wearing a pair of denim overalls. In her hand she holds a hammer. Her pretty face flushes and she quickly hides the hammer behind her back. “H-hello. Hi.”

“Georgie, who is it? And at this hour? Don’t they know any _good_ funeral home doesn’t open until _after_ noon?”

The young woman, Georgie, opens the door wider, allowing Strand and Alex to enter.

The room they enter is dark and sparsely furnished. Flowers wilt in vases far too big for the small bouquets left in them. A man, pale with sunken eyes, stands behind a counter. His expression is far from welcoming and he checks the watch on his wrist several times as they make their way inside.

“Customers, I would assume, sir,” says Georgie. Her eyes flit between Strand and the dusty wooden floorboards beneath her feet.

The man’s eyes widen and he bounces on the balls of his feet. He does something with his mouth, something Alex assumes is _supposed_ to be a smile. It makes him look ghoulish, like an animatronic in a haunted house. “Ah! Customers! Take that, Chapman!”

Strand looks between the man and the door like he’s beginning to regret his choice to start their search at this particular business. He opens his mouth, perhaps to announce their departure, but then the phone rings.

The man picks it up after the first ring. “Now see here! _What_? Visitors? No, Chapman, they’re _my_ customers. No, you can’t meet them! In fact, as my rival, I hereby ban you from ever coming over here _again_.”

Another voice, full of frustration, comes from somewhere just out of sight. “Rudyard, what are you _doing_? You can’t _ban_ people. How are we supposed to book clients when you keep _banning_ them?”

The voice belongs to a woman, who materializes out of the shadows as if she were at home in them. They cling to her dress before reluctantly letting her step into the dim light of the solitary light-bulb hanging overhead.

She’s taller than the man, who must be Rudyard, but they look remarkably similar. Her long hair hangs lank against the pale skin of her face, but she has the same sunken eyes and sharp features as Rudyard. Even from several paces away, the woman reeks of formaldehyde. But underneath it, strangely, is the scent of clementines and cinnamon.

“It was Chapman, Antigone.”

“Oh. Yes. Well. Shut up! Who are you?”

Antigone turns the question on Alex, who blinks at the ferocity of it. “I’m Alex Reagan. This is my friend, Dr. Strand.”

Antigone’s gaze turns from Alex to Strand. Like Georgie, her face turns a bright scarlet. Her eyes go distant before Rudyard notices, rolls his eyes, and snaps his fingers in front of Antigone’s face.

Antigone snaps back into focus. “Huh? Oh! Shut up! Georgie, why don’t you go make our customers some tea?”

Georgie, sans hammer, strides by, her entire demeanor changed from the stammering young woman who answered the door. She smiles up at Strand, ignoring Alex completely, and puts her hand on his arm. Alex feels a flare of agitation toward the young woman as Strand looks down. He doesn’t brush her off. 

“Dr. Strand,” she says, voice soft, sultry, even. “Would you like a cup of tea? I’m _great_ at making a cup of tea.”

“Georgie!” Antigone says. “Stop _flirting_ with our customer. It’s indecent!” 

Georgie rolls her eyes. “Fine! Okay, I’m going.”

Before she leaves, she gives Strand one last, lingering look. “That tea will be coming right up, Dr. Strand.”

Rudyard looks up from his watch. “I’m Rudyard Funn. This is my sister--”

Antigone elbows him in the ribs.

“--and partner, Antigone. Welcome to Funn Funerals. We get the body in the coffin in the ground on time.”

“How can we help you?” Antigone asks, glaring at her brother.

“I’m looking for my wife,” Strand says.

“Is she dead?” Antigone looks much too pleased at the prospect.

“She’s missing,” Alex says. “She sent us a clue that led us to your village. We were wondering if anyone has seen her.”

Rudyard’s shoulders drop. “Not customers, then. Well, if she isn’t dead, what’s the point?”

Strand’s expression sours even more. He towers over the other man, who doesn’t look the least bit threatened. 

Instead, Rudyard looks put out. “Call Chapman. Tell him he’s unbanned so I can ban him again when we _do_ have customers.”

“She can’t have come through here,” Georgie says, holding a tray bearing chipped china cups and an electric kettle. “We’d know of it. The last new person to come through was Chapman and he only got permission to set up because of the serial killer.”

“What?” Alex asks. “A serial killer?” 

“Long story,” says Rudyard. “Of course, they thought it was me. I was very popular for about eight hours.”

Antigone rolls her eyes. “You got chased by an angry mob, Rudyard. That’s hardly something to be proud of.”

Rudyard checks his watch again. “‘Tigone, don’t you have a body to embalm? And Georgie, don’t you have a coffin to build? I’m sorry, mister and missus whoever you are, but we’re supposed to bury Mr. Jackson at six. If we hold anything sacred here at Funn Funerals, it’s that we get the body in the coffin in the ground on time.”

Strand lets Alex pull him out of the funeral home. Georgie pouts as they go, still holding the tray of tea.

“I don’t think this is where we’re meant to be,” Alex says, as soon as they make it outside.

“There was a mouse in that man’s pocket,” says Strand, looking dazed. 

“Definitely _not_ where we’re supposed to be. Let’s go back to the hotel and take another look at Coralee’s clue.”

Strand nods. For once, he's too taken aback by their experience to argue.

**Author's Note:**

> *Edited 7.27.17


End file.
